


Must Be This Tall To Ride

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, BDSM, Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9696797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: The position emphasized how tall Sherlock really was, and how short Donovan had insinuated John was in relation to him. Not that John’s mouth was anywhere low enough to suck Sherlock off while they were both standing, of course, but while sitting . . .No, not tonight.Tonight was about getting Sherlock safely through subspace and a damn good orgasm and maybemaybegetting him to attach a “don’t be such a cock” to the memory when he stored it in his mind palace.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to the lovely esoemp for helping me figure out a title for this. I suck at titles.
> 
> This was just going to be a smutty little 221B ficlet because I had other stuff I had to do. It got longer.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

Sherlock moaned around the gag, his gaze never leaving John’s face. Amazing how expressive he could be without words, given the right inducement. Tonight the inducement was having his wrists cuffed above his head and attached to the eyebolt he’d installed in the ceiling of his bedroom. Sherlock claimed it was for an experiment; John suspected he’d really just felt like drilling a hole in something.

“I can deal with your usual insults,” John continued, stalking in a tight circle around Sherlock’s nude form, “but the short jokes are _not on_. Especially when you know damn well Donovan meant every bit of that innuendo. Why did you bloody encourage her?”

Sherlock moaned again, a small noise that a man with less detective-wrangling experience than John had might have taken for “I’m sorry.” The real meaning was more like “just get on with it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened nicely at the sight of the riding crop, though. They’d only played with it once before, and it had left Sherlock meek and aching for _days_. Mycroft only barely avoided commenting on his brother’s inexplicable tractability. “Meek” was damn well what John was going for tonight, though.

“Since you enjoy being so bloody tall,” John mused, “I think maybe I’ll make you work for it. On your tiptoes, and try not to lose your balance.”

Sherlock didn’t have much of a choice, since John had already cinched him up slightly higher than he could reach while flat-footed, but he obediently spread his stance a bit and attempted to balance on his own. John circled around behind him and helped himself to a double palmful of Sherlock’s arse.

“Wish I weren’t so _short_ ,” John murmured against Sherlock’s spine. “I could take you right here, fuck the sass right out of you. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” He traced a finger down Sherlock’s crack, lightly grazing over his hole and continuing on down to tease at his perineum. The git really was too tall to fuck properly while standing, even if he hadn’t been on his tiptoes, but that didn’t mean John was entirely without resources. “I’ll be back in a tick.”

Sherlock exhaled loudly when John stepped away.

They did have lube in the bedside drawer in Sherlock’s room, of course, but John went all the way upstairs to his old bedroom for his own preferred brand anyway. It would do His Royal Tallness some good to wait. Plus he couldn’t glare at John while John was out of the room. After a moment’s consideration, John also retrieved the prostate massager he’d bought for Sherlock once and had never found the right occasion to use. Tonight seemed like a good time.

He dumped the lube and the toy at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, well within Sherlock’s field of vision, then went back out to retrieve two more things. Sherlock noticeably hardened when John came back with one of the chairs from the kitchen and his half-finished mystery novel.

“Figured you wouldn’t mind,” John pronounced. “And that you’d have deduced my plan before I even got settled in. No point in trying to surprise you, I guess.” He dragged the chair around behind Sherlock, where the git couldn’t see him, then plopped himself down (leaving the riding crop on the floor for now) and commenced giving Sherlock’s gorgeous arse the attention it deserved.

Sherlock approved whole-heartedly, judging from the sounds coming through the gag. The prostate massager was essentially a lumpy dildo with a flared base - thin enough John didn’t have to use his fingers first, long enough he didn’t even have to bother working it all the way inside. When Sherlock was sufficiently loose and moaning at every twist and thrust, John deemed him ready. He left the toy in Sherlock’s arse while he retrieved his book from the bed, then sat back down behind Sherlock and reached up to idly toy with the massager while he read.

He didn’t take in a word, of course. No human alive could have focused their attention elsewhere when Sherlock Holmes was nude and strung up and needy and making all those intriguing _noises._ The berk couldn’t come from prostate stimulation alone, though, and they both knew it, so John was free to torment him as long as he wanted. He didn’t even need to _use_ the riding crop - just its presence leaning up against his thigh was enough to keep them both thinking about it.

Both their phones were still sitting on the coffee table, so John had no idea how long he kept Sherlock on the edge, but he doggedly plowed through a good fifteen pages before finally putting the book down and touching Sherlock for real. Gentle hands, rubbing up and down his back, massaging some of the tension out of his arms. There were real, honest-to-goodness tears on Sherlock’s cheeks when John came around in front of him and got a good look at his face.

He wiped them away with the back of a finger. “Need me to stop?” he murmured.

Sherlock emphatically shook his head no. He would have signaled if that had been the case, of course, but it was good to have explicit confirmation.

“You want to come?”

A just-as-emphatic yes. God, Sherlock was _dripping,_ already, wasn’t he? John pressed the massager in as far as it would go, so the flared base was flat with Sherlock’s arse, then swung the chair around so he could sit comfortably. If he leaned forward, his mouth would have been within licking distance of Sherlock’s nearly purple cock.

“Are you sorry yet, do you think?” John asked. He leaned back instead, adopting a casual pose and putting some deliberate distance between them. Sherlock’s stance was just wide enough John was able to stretch out his legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and only Sherlock’s calves were touching John’s shins. The position emphasized how tall Sherlock really was, and how short Donovan had insinuated John was in relation to him. Not that John’s mouth was anywhere low enough to suck Sherlock off while they were both standing, of course, but while sitting . . .

 _No, not tonight._ Tonight was about getting Sherlock safely through subspace and a damn good orgasm and maybe _maybe_ getting him to attach a “don’t be such a cunt” to the memory when he stored it in his mind palace. For that, the riding crop was ideal. John picked it up and ran it through the circle of his fingers once, twice, three times before letting the flat leather tip slide down Sherlock’s side and along his dangerously sharp iliac crest.

“I’m not going to touch your prick tonight, Sherlock,” John said in a low voice. Sherlock’s breathing had already sped up, a sure sign he was practically non-verbal already even if he hadn’t been wearing the gag. “I’m barely going to even touch you with this, actually. And obviously you’re not going to touch yourself. I’ll be dreadfully disappointed if you make a mess on me, though. Can you be good for me? Can you hold it in while I play so you don’t get even a drop of come on my face? Nod if you will try.”

Sherlock bobbed his head several times, his eyes wide and dark.

“I believe you can control yourself, love. You’re so well-behaved when you put in the effort.” John let the tip of the crop trace lower, down along the outer edge of Sherlock’s right leg and then up his inner thigh to where Sherlock’s muscles were already quivering with the strain of holding himself still. _So gorgeous._ John couldn’t resist a quick back-and-forth against the tender skin there, just to hear the slap of leather and Sherlock’s subsequent reaction. “Wider, Sherlock,” he chided mildly.

Sherlock immediately shuffled his feet wider. The stance put more strain on his shoulders - he’d need to change positions soon - but it also brought a gorgeous flush to his chest and face. All from three quick taps. _Magnificent._

The downside of the riding crop was it required actual distance to use well. Not a lot of distance, not as much as the flogger or the whip (which John still refused to use on Sherlock until they both had a hell of a lot more experience together and he’d had time to practice more with it), but enough he couldn’t just bury his face in Sherlock’s groin like he wanted. Instead, John had to make do with pretend slouching in the uncomfortable chair and executing small guerrilla attacks on various vulnerable parts of Sherlock’s body. Throat, thighs, navel, nipples. Mostly stroking, with an occasional snap against Sherlock’s sensitive skin. Sherlock’s bollocks were the hardest John had ever seen them, tight and straining-

 _Yeah, fuck it._ John dropped the riding crop and hauled himself forward in the chair so he could taste Sherlock’s skin the way he’d been wanting to all evening. His own cock was straining against his zip, too, but there was something delicious about the power dynamic of Sherlock being strung up and naked and John still being entirely clothed and - in theory - presentable company. Even if his breath probably now smelled like lube and the warm, masculine aroma of Sherlock’s arousal. John mouthed at Sherlock’s bollocks, tugging one and then the other into his mouth, always avoiding any brush against Sherlock’s cock because heaven knew Sherlock was already on a hair trigger. From that position, it was a mere twist of the wrist to reach around and nudge at the end of the prostate massager in Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock literally sobbed into the gag.

He was near his limit, and John knew it. Keeping him on the edge much longer would have tipped over into cruel. John forced himself to stand up, back away, and circle around so he could hold Sherlock’s hips tight from behind.

“You ready to come yet, Sherlock?” he murmured up in the general direction of Sherlock’s ear. “You’ve been so good for me, you know. You’ve earned it.”

_“Mmph!”_

“That’s what I thought.” John slid his palms forward, forefingers following the line where Sherlock’s thighs met his torso. Still avoiding his cock. “Tall git like you, I still can’t line us up properly. Not to mention there’s _this_ in the way.” He nudged his own hips forward, grinding his stomach into the base of the prostate massager and driving it deeper into Sherlock’s arse. “I’m going to take your gag off now, and I want you to ask me for what you want.”

It took several seconds before Sherlock was capable of more than quiet whimpers, even once the gag was removed. When he did recover his voice it was thin and needy.

“Please, John,” Sherlock whispered. “I need to come. I need to come so badly.”

“So polite for me.” John pressed a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulderblades and finally, _finally_ let his hand drift to Sherlock’s cock. Their positions were reminiscent of a casual wank in the shower, except for the fact that the cock at hand was not his own and Sherlock was still totally, utterly helpless to influence his own orgasm.

“Please,” Sherlock echoed. “Please John please please please-”

It took a whole two strokes and Sherlock was crying out, shockingly loud, and coming hard. He would have doubled over if he hadn’t still been tied to the eyebolt in the ceiling. As it was, John waited for Sherlock’s tremors to subside and then quickly unfastened his wrist cuffs. Sherlock slumped down into his waiting arms.

“Bed,” John declared. Sherlock was bloody heavy when he was too blissed out to support his own weight. He barely even moved when John carefully removed the massager, rubbed the circulation back into his arms and his calves, and stripped off his own clothes to spoon up behind him.

“Love you,” Sherlock murmured. He sounded most of the way to asleep.

“Love you too, you bloody tall git,” John murmured back.

“Not too tall. Tonight I’m th’little spoon.”

“Yes, yes you are.” John gathered Sherlock closer in his arms and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair. There’s no way the world’s only consulting detective didn’t notice John’s cock jabbing him in the small of his back, but that would wait. “And I love you anyway.”


End file.
